


Somewhat Damaged

by mr-finch (soubriquet)



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Play, Dissociation, Fantasizing About Dub-con, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Rorschach's Long History With Repressed Trauma VS One Horny Idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27425620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soubriquet/pseuds/mr-finch
Summary: Rorschach experiments with different methods to see if he can cum more than once in a blue moon.
Relationships: Rorschach (Watchmen)/Other(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	Somewhat Damaged

**Author's Note:**

> I hate this man for making me write this way.

Experimentation? Rorschach’s no stranger to this.

But he needs some extra pieces to set the atmosphere. Some explicit garbage music that teenagers play at nightclubs while they writhe all night, hands in each other’s pants. Clutching the ass of whichever slut lurches back on them.

Nine Inch Nails, Rorschach thinks. Rammstein. Nirvana. Out of circulation, but carrying a sexual _weight_ that travels the years; makes them the greatest hits on the playlists of clubs with names like Whiplash or The Sissyfier. Rorschach has never entered any. He has only examined their floor-plans, their tax bands, the contents of their dumpsters. Research a hellhole from afar; less chance it will leave its mark.

He buys the garbage in CD form – less to trace than an active iTunes or Spotify account. No internet access in the places he nests. He slides one CD into the ancient Walkman, slips the headphones over his mask (the hat is placed to one side). Yes: the strangled voice, the slap of the drums, the drag of nails down guitar strings. These produce a response – a recognition – callbacks to skulking in the gutters outside those clubs, watching the flicker of activity within. Men in harnesses, leather. He gets down on his knees.

There’s something mechanical about closing his leather-gloved fist over the manifestation of arousal in his pants. The music blares in his ears: Trent Reznor coaxing, simpering, comforting: _You are just as fucked up as me. I am just as fucked up as you._

He wonders, sometimes, if he entered one of those clubs, whether he would be an oddity: masks seem ubiquitous; identities hidden. His leather coat and gloves similar items of clothing. He never could figure out the laws of such places. Are the men who enter debauched, used? Out in the open in the hidden sinhole or behind a pretence at privacy? How is it decided? With a word, a head movement, a hand?

Rorschach squeezes his cock involuntarily at the thought of a hand slipping around his waist and feeling for an appendage that can be coaxed to firm, leak, harden and then, someone peeling around his body to push him onto his back–

His thoughts trail off. No, he would rather not be ridden; his cock a useable item. This is the trouble with masturbation: there is only so far he can reach before this tearing away of interest, despite the deep animal urge of need. It is maddening. It is despised. Rorschach bucks against his hand with a snarl on his lips, like he can punish his hand for trying.

Perhaps, interest dying as if never there, he should experiment now. CDs are not the only recent purchase. Rorschach has made use of online sellers to avoid the sheer horror of walking into a physical store and browsing their wares. Muttering compliments or thoughts beneath his mask, as the eyes of the staff follow him around. Once, long ago. Never again.

Package arrived last week. It sat beneath this mattress afterwards – a knowing lump – until he was horny enough to try it. Rorschach cannot put off his urges forever. They consume his iron will eventually, always. He takes the parcel from the foot of the mattress, tearing through the packaging with his teeth. The lump of silicone inside is shapely, red, innocuously hard. Interest returns with a vengeance.

He grasps it in his gloved hands. Squeezes it to watch it bulge and respond. Like a neck or a wrist. Rorschach lowers it to press it against the rapidly swelling bulge in his pants; presses a hand flat to the shaft; works his hips softly against the resistance. It is not warm but ice cold in the November chill. Still, it is like… it is like…

He unbuttons, unzips, opens his fly enough to bring his cock out. He sits the silicone beside it; takes both in one hand and squeezes, strokes both. Trent Reznor growls deep in his skull. Rorschach allows himself a very soft moan.

This is… it is experimentation. A test to see whether he can enjoy stimulation to its conclusion more often than at random. Though the silicone may need help.

And Rorschach couldn’t quite bring himself to buy lube.

Perhaps if he–

He strokes both cocks, admiring the swell of the red silicone: pliant but hard in his grip. Focuses attention on the slight inkling that this is another’s cock, not his own, then drops that thought as soon as it forms. Pants through his teeth at the thought of a hand in the club, trailing down his waist from behind and grasping his cock, jacking him off right there onto the floor in front of everybody.

He’s bucking, he’s bucking, and part of him tries to make it stop – so soon – but he’s too far gone: tilting his cock at the last minute to cum all over the bright, matte shaft. Gooey and white. Evidence of sin. He pants harder, tense on his knees, fist tight around his dick. Twitching now, then watching dregs drip out.

He loses himself – not long – ten, perhaps twenty seconds – in the mindless detachment of seeing his own dick cum. Mind leaves a hole behind as it leaves; eyes zone out. Relief and enjoyment detach, remove. Slight disgust and revulsion replace.

Rorschach does not want this on his gloves. He pushes the mask up to his nose and takes the finger of one glove between his teeth, pulling it off. Does the same to the other. Then leaves his cock to soften on his thighs. Holds instead the silicone cock: ever-virile, slippery now and more when he strokes it and coats the white mess along its entire length. Hawks bubbly spit on top. Strokes that.

Despite the existence of internet porn, Rorschach knows nothing, only that he desires this. He knows the metrics of cock in hole, but with– no, he won’t think about that, desires more than detachment and drop of interest. Surely, it is the same with him, or similar. Notices he has pushed his trousers down and half-off, one pant leg trailing on the mattress and the other still attached to his ankle. Underwear twisted over toes.

His thighs spread wide, kneeling upright on the bed. Rorschach reaches back and rubs the silicone head – slick, cool – up that tender joint linking balls and ass. Nudges the spot he wants it inside. Nudges harder.

Back to the club. Flash, like it’s not a fantasy but an intrusion. The crotch behind him, grinding. The hands holding his hips. The cock rubbing at his ass – like he’s rubbing this, now, bending forward like it’s only natural to press his cheek to a grimy mattress. He thrusts the tip nearly in and almost begs.

It slides: slippery, pliable. He exhales visible air. It jabs at his asshole, stretches him when it enters in a way he’s not familiar with. Provokes noise. He writhes back, wanting more. Fights to get enough grip to go deeper. Fights with the love of pain. Longs for far-off sense or judgement.

Now Rorschach must admit it: he wants to be fucked. Those hands on him in the club pick him up. Pluck him from the dancefloor. Carry him, squirming, protesting, fighting, to a couch in a dark corner. Still on display, just darker.

The rip of seams as the man tears his trousers down. The growled tease in his ear. The fist on his cock; laughter that Rorschach is already harder than hell. Rubbing of a large weighty dick between the crack of his ass as the man spreads him open–

Rorschach’s hand on his cock, stroking again, tongue lax and wet on his lip as he moans at each phantom touch. Silicone slipping against his ass, infuriatingly hard to get in.

Eventually, when too close to worse intentions, he shoves the red dick down onto the mattress – slick head upright – and rises onto his knees, perching over it. Teasing that tapered head with his asshole. Imagines…

The man grasping him hard around the waist, pulling him down onto a thick, adult cock. Rorschach pins the silicone in place and sinks – no, pushes, twists, _forces_ – down onto it. Vessel for its use. Hole to be fucked.

Tears like relief squeeze past the lip of his mask, salting his mouth. Tongue licking: some other man’s cum. Moving, hitching, on the cock in his ass – at last, at last. So hard he’s near blind.

Feels himself shudder, try to slip aside, but he _wants_ this. Now. Tonight. Throws himself forward, rough onto his face. Seizes the base of the cock in one hand and spreads his legs. Draws it halfway out then rams it in to the hilt, gasping and hollering shit he can’t hear. His thighs shake. His cock weeps. He keeps thrusting it deep, fast, rampant, rubbing cock against scratchy mattress. Cumming before he even knows it: a harsh _fuck_ , hot splatter up his stomach, clenching and bucking against the silicone dick.

Such physical sensation. Such wretched need. Rorschach sags, thighs weak, folding onto the bed. His hand oily wet. His cock faintly raw. His ass so full, dreamlike, but throbbing and feels like bleeding, perhaps aching.

He doesn’t care. Got fucked and came. Falls into almost sleep like that, uncaring. Anyone could walk into this hole. Anyone use him, like this. Just like this and he’d get hard, still; cum again, still. Thinks for a second about Dan or, fuck, Veidt, wrenching his hair back. Fucked into submission.

Rorschach squeezes his eyes closed. Drowns for days or moments in disconnected arousing images. Might fall asleep like this; might not.


End file.
